


painted into the world with ashes and stardust

by rainbowgraffiti



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:09:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8895988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowgraffiti/pseuds/rainbowgraffiti
Summary: the four horsemen and colors





	

/daniel/

in j. daniel atlas's eyes, the world is dressed in white.

white is pristine, perfect, the color of brand new gloves or a fresh blanket of untouched snow, and j. daniel atlas is nothing if not perfect.

on the stage, he's painted in white; purer than any angel and hiding more than a few tricks up his sleeves, walking on clouds and speckled with stars.

(behind the scenes, he withers in white; stripped down and barren, chiseled into shape and nailed down like a marble statue.)

on the stage, he inhales white; commanding, powerful, drawing eyes with every breathtaking movement and casting spells with nothing but a smile.

(behind the lights, he screams white; static noise, with all the words in the world and nothing to say, hiding behind his illusions and deceiving anyone with enough innocence to spare.)

on the stage, he's blindingly white; glowing, flawless and unscathed, a figure with bright wings feathered in playing cards and spotlights illuminating the gleam in his eye.

(behind the curtain, he's burning white; the absence of color, scrubbed clean until his skin is raw, tailored and tugged until he's just right, painted over and over until he's nothing more than a silhouette.)

j. daniel atlas is colored in with sheets and snow and all the stars (and he's a disappearing act all in himself)

 

/merritt/

merritt mckinney lives between shades of grey.

it comes, first, in the form of a traitor's pale eyes and a silver knife slid quietly between his shoulder blades by his very own brother. then, in the form of the confining walls of a prison cell and the stormy skies that loom over his own playground of a mind.

it comes in the form of freedom and ashen faces and silver tongues, of spare change and keys to a car that isn't his.

it comes in the form of lonely nights and empty rooms, and the lingering taste of metal in his mouth that never quite seems to go away.

it comes in the form of the shovel he uses to dig his own grave, in the form of fogging whiskey and the smoke he wears like a shroud.

(it comes in the form of clouded thoughts and the fear he's losing his mind.)

and then, it's grey by way of three young magicians, with their big dreams and clashing personalities, accessorized with cards and handcuffs. it's the grey of dove-colored suits and bright lights and shining stages and memories of the glory days.

but that comes with grey in the form of spitting lies and fabrications that weave themselves together like pale silk and one big trick that never seems to end.

it comes with grey in the form of forgetting what's right and wrong (they're heroes, right? they steal from the rich and give to the poor, and that makes them heroes. right?) and hardly knowing the difference.

merritt mckinney lives between shades of grey. he's colored in with smoke and ashes and thunder (and slowly, slowly, the color slips away).

 

/henley/

henley reeves burns in red.

she does everything in red, actually.

she remembers in red; strawberry shag carpets and spilled wine, cherry-colored sequins and lipstick stains and rose-red duffels and scarlet-tinted vision and promises that she's never, ever coming back.

she runs in red; trailing dust behind her as ginger hair and vermillion spirits float aloft in the wind, as stolen candy-colored cars leave skidding tire tracks on the road and the smell of burning rubber brings her back to life.

and henley reeves learns to live in red; cheap thrills in burgundy and chasing dreams in rogue, adrenaline rushes of carmine and maroon and poppy, hot fires of stolen kisses and soft rose pillows that aren't hers.

she performs with every red-hot ounce of passion she has and loves with all the crimson in her body and laughs with every shade of coral under the sun.

(she bleeds in red, too; droplets falling like rubies from wrists torn by the handcuffs she's so desperate to escape from, because she'll do anything, anything for the show.)

but mostly, she burns in red.

she lights herself ablaze, a smoldering conflagration of heat and heart and pure willpower. she catches like kerosene, flaming, glowing (and hissing and sputtering and flickering out).

she smothers the streets in gasoline, strikes matches of currant-colored flares and illuminates the world, one more show-stopping performance of crimson and scarlet and burning, burning red before it all goes up in smoke.

she's a fire, a storming blaze in every shade of blood and rubies and lipstick that the world has seen, and she's doused to her core in red, red, and fiery red.

henley reeves is colored in with flames (and all the while, she burns herself away).

 

/jack/

at first, jack wilder is a cacophany of colors.

he's the brown of cheap floors and the chipping white of plaster walls, the faded blues of sheets he never slept in and the reds of stains of blood on his clothes and the rainbow of the pills she took one by one by one (until they were all gone gone gone, taking her with them).

he's the green of shattered beer bottles and the silvers of every watch he stole, the worn leathers of wallets sliding out of pockets with such ease, the hard asphalt and the cold nights and the shaking hands he'd hide behind a flurry of playing cards.

he's purple bruises and pink scars, the yellows of the sun he's so afraid he'll never see again, the shiny gold of the badges he'll never stop running from.

and jack sucks in the colors like they're oxygen. he fuels his insatiable hunger for the light he'll never have enough of with card tricks and magic shows, smoke and mirrors and nothing but hopeless illusions of grandeur. he absorbs it all, drinking it up and letting it simmer within him in some sort of discordant harmony.

he takes and takes and takes (because what has the world ever given him?).

(and suddenly, he's the black of leather belts and slammed doors, the black of bruised knuckles and cigarette butts and the black of darkened skies and sleepless roads and the hole in his chest that has never quite been filled.)

jack wilder, he's drawn with harsh lines of charcoal, blackened and burned and dripping with tar. he breathes smoke and bleeds ink and is forged from iron; he's a wreckage of spades and clubs, carved from obsidian.

and jack wilder? he's a void, colored in with all the darkness in the world (he's pitch black, black, black, and nothing more).


End file.
